Cutting Edge
by saberivojo
Summary: Sam is on knife cleaning, sharpening detail tonight.  Turns out that Dad doesn't think too much of smart ass remarks regarding his lack of vision when it comes to how much training a fourteen year old should have to put up with.


Title: Cutting Edge

Author: Saberivojo

Characters: Sam, Dean and John. Teen!chesters

Warnings: PG for potty mouth

Summary: Sam is on knife cleaning, sharpening detail tonight. Turns out that Dad doesn't think too much of smart ass remarks regarding his lack of vision when it comes to how much training a fourteen year old should have to put up with.

Sam is on knife cleaning, sharpening detail tonight. Turns out that Dad doesn't think too much of smart ass remarks regarding his lack of vision when it comes to how much training a fourteen year old should have to put up with.

Sam figures it could be worse. Dad wasn't often inventive when it came to crime and punishment. Dad could have added an extra three miles to the five he already ran or he could have done the old clean the head with a toothbrush. But instead he had growled.

"Every knife we own, Sam. Clean and sharpened. Maybe that will give you a little time to think about how training might just save your ass one day."

Sam had wanted to bitch about it but Dad had given him the fuck with me tonight and we are gonna dance look so Sam had wisely yes, sirred, and then waited for Dad to leave.

"So, Sammy? You gonna be all right here for a while? I'd give you a hand but Maggie O'Connell is waiting for me and you know how those Catholic girls are." Dean grins, all feral and charming at the same time.

"No Dean, I don't know about Catholic girls. Still - whatever. I got at least two hours of knives to sharpen and Lord forbid if you help me while I'm learning my lesson regarding my smart ass mouth."

Dean leans over and ruffles Sam's unruly hair. "Listen Sammy, if you're not done when I get back, I finish up with you. What Dad doesn't know won't hurt him. Deal?"

Sam wants to be angry with Dean but his brother has a way of making him feel better even when he hasn't done a damn thing. And Dad isn't due home till tomorrow so it'll work out.

"Deal."

Dean grabs his jacket and whistles "Only the Good Die Young" as he saunters out the front door.

Sam looks at the impressive blade arsenal that the Winchesters own. He likes knives. They are uncomplicated. There is weight and balance. There is the type of blade, the edge and what it kills best. But it is a personal weapon, far more graceful than a gun, subtle, dangerous and inconspicuous. Sam likes to think he could be subtle and dangerous.

He picks up a Bowie with a wicked, slightly curved tip. It is 7 inches long and the handle is polished wood. It's clean and sharp but Dad wants it cleaner and sharper. The blade is silver and when he turns it in the dull light of the kitchen it glints, throwing a bright light against the far wall. He slants it again. Damn it is a fine weapon. He draws the knife back and forth across whetstone, the light film of oil barely concealing the rasp. It's easy work, comforting really. There is something intrinsically therapeutic about sharpening knives. Of course, he would never tell Dad that one. He tests the edge and polishes it with a soft chamois.

The Bowie is his favorite and despite it's size it is perfectly balanced and feels good in his hand.

Sam stands and tosses the Bowie from his right to his left hand. He catches it deftly. Dad is always bitchin' about working with his left. Sam thinks he has a pretty good lefty strike. He heads toward his and Dean's room, crouching low, tosses the Bowie from left to right and back again. He can do this. He's dangerous, he's a hunter. His left hand is just as quick as his right, Sam stands by the door jam, body hugging the wall, the long curved Bowie in his left. Dean may be great with a gun, but Sam has the edge when it comes to knives. Sam giggles a bit. Edge. Knife. He cracks himself up.

With a quick jump he launches himself into the bedroom, facing his own reflection in the mirror. Parry, thrust, the big Bowie slices through the air. Sam aims for his reflection's belly, shove in deep, rip upward, small intestine, stomach, and liver. He can slice right on through to the kidney if he hits hard enough. And all left-handed. Fuck you, Dad.

Sam looks at himself, bounces back, flips the Bowie from left to right, allows it to rotate once before he catches it in his right hand. He flips it right to left again, sends it spinning threw the air, silver blade, wood handle, silver blade, wood handle, silver blade and catches it. The blade is so sharp he barely registers the slide of silver through his palm, even his hand doesn't seem to notice, the edge of the Bowie so sharp it almost seals itself up. And it might have too except for the depth because Sam had a lot of force in that throw and suddenly his hand is blooming bright red, blood streaming from a five inch cut that almost slices his left hand in half.

"FUCK!"

The blood isn't quite shooting but to say it is gently streaming wouldn't be accurate either. Instinctively, his right hand clasps his wounded left hand; the blood is squishing through his fingers. He releases his left hand for a moment and pulls a white t-shirt from Dean's drawer quickly applying pressure to his left hand. He lifts his arm over his head still applying pressure and heads back to the kitchen, knife temporarily forgotten and laying in his bedroom. Sam has a moment of panic, blood dripping down his left arm.

Deans playing with Maggie whatshername and Dads hunting a whatsamcallit and Sams bleeding to death in the kitchen. But he has been trained to handle this kind of shit. He knows what to do.

Sam heads to the med kit. It's in the bathroom, under the sink. They have another in the Impala and this one may not be quite as well stocked but it sure not a dime store med kit either. He grabs several four by fours and gingerly lifts Dean's t-shirt off his hand, still trying to keep it above his heart. He slaps the four by fours in a row over the slim deep line of red and starts wrapping his hand with gauze, and then pulls self-adhesive gauze over that.

He hisses with the pressure against the wound but is finally satisfied that his blood isn't leaking out all over the apartment.

"Sammy!" There is a bellow from the front door. Dad? Dad? Why is Dad here?

Sam grabs a towel throws it over his bandaged hand.

"Comin' Dad."

Sam grabs another towel swipes it over the bloody floor, balls it up and shoves it under the sink.

"Sammy…. what the hell is up with the knives?" Dad sounds pissed. He always sounds pissed.

Sam takes a quick look at himself in the mirror. He is holding the towel in his left hand and it covers the makeshift bandage still he doubts seriously it is gonna work.

Sam heads into the kitchen and notices the scowl on Dad's face.

"This is how much you have accomplished in…" Dad looks at his watch, "An hour and a half?"

Sam hangs his head. He figures contrite might work. "Sorry, Dad. Just started messing around."

Dad doesn't seem to think that Sam messing around is all that unusual, or so it seems, he humphs and turns toward the sink, fills up a coffee pot.

"Where's your brother?"

"Out for awhile, he won't be long…hey Dad? Why are you home so early."

"Got 45 minutes down the road and Bobby called to tell me that Caleb had already killed the sonofabitch."

Sam nods and tries to look sympathetic.

"So, you gonna work on them knives or are they gonna clean and sharpen themselves?" Dad asks with a bite to his words

"Sorry, Dad. "

John looks at him then, eyes dark and slightly concerned. _Fuck, he should have never apologized. Dad's gonna figure this out sooner rather than later._

Sam hears a wet splat on the kitchen floor and then suddenly he needs to sit but the chair is just too far away. Dad is there in a moment, arms strong and his body carefully lowering Sam to the ground.

Ground? Winchesters don't fuckin' faint.Sam hears him talking but it is distant._ Words like Shit, _and _Jesus, where's the blood coming from? _

And then nothing.

Sam comes to with a cool rag on his head and his father's face mere inches from his own.

"Sam. You hear me, son? "

Sam nods, feeling the whoosh of blood sounding though his head. He doesn't feel too good

"I don't feel too good."

Dad grunts, but Sam is not quite sure what the grunt means. Dad can be kind of monosyllabic and Sam right now he just isn't getting it.

"Sam. What in the hell did you do to yourself?" Sam notices that the wound has been re-bandaged, it is neat and tight better than if he had gone to the ER. He can feel the slight pull of stitches. Thank God he wasn't coherent enough to feel them going in. He is laying on the couch and although the TV is on, its muted. Dad has pulled over a kitchen chair and gently touches the back of his hand to Sam's head.

"Well?" Dad's voice is soft but it's layered in steel. He expects an answer.

There is no use lying, Sam's muddled brain knows he left the Bowie knife in the bedroom it wouldn't take a hunter to follow the blood trail back to the kitchen and to the bathroom. Dad would know there was no reason to have the Bowie in the bedroom. No, he is just fucked. He has broken a serious Winchester rule and he knows it.

"I was playing around with the Bowie, practicing sort of, and just caught the wrong side."

"Caught it? What kind of practice involves you throwin' a Bowie knife around and catchin' it again. In the bedroom." There is censure and pissed in Dad's voice. His rumble is lower and as a rule, lower is always bad with Dad.

"I wasn't thinkin'," Then because Sam figures he ought to at least do his best to save his ass. "Sir."

Dad stands and paces the small living room, runs a hand through his hair.

"Damn it, Sam. These are weapons not toys. How old are you? Seven?" Sam hangs his head. He deserves it. Most times he just gets mad about being reamed out but tonight? Nah, it is all on him.

Dad stops, plants his feet shoulder width apart, crosses his arms and gives Sam what looks to be his worst Winchester glare

"If I ever, ever find out you are fuckin' around with a weapon again like that I swear you won't sit easy for a week. Got it?"

Sam doesn't want to look at the fire in his father's face. He gets it. He does. "Yes, sir."

Sam starts to sit up, he's still woozy and dad promptly leans down and pushes him back on the couch.

"Where the hell are you goin'?

"Gonna finish the knives."

Dad smiles, just the barest hint. "Nope, your brother's got that on his list to do. That _and_ the guns." Sam arches an eyebrow at Dad. Punishments don't just go away for Winchesters. Especially, when you almost cut your hand off by dickin' around while you are supposed to be doin' them. 

"I think maybe your brother needs a lesson too. Maybe it'll give him some time to think about leavin' you alone for Maggie O'Connell."

Sam knows he was out of it but also knows he never mentioned where Dean went. It occurs to him that both he and Dean are screwed.

How in the hell the man knows this shit, Sam will never figure it out but he expects when Dean comes home there will be some explaining to do.


End file.
